


Snippets from Baker Street

by Virtuella



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: F/M, Ficlet Collection, Gen, Humour, Sherlolly - Freeform, complicated family, silliness
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-04-24
Updated: 2018-05-04
Packaged: 2019-04-27 11:04:53
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 1,925
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14424066
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Virtuella/pseuds/Virtuella
Summary: A collection of Sherlock ficlets.Chapter 1: What's in a Name? We gain insight into the information Sherlock has stored about Molly's name - and a little scrap of knowledge he keeps secret.Chapter 2: What's in a Name II: Sherlock's deductions about John's nameChapter 3: What's in a Name III:Rosie's name is giving Sherlock trouble.Chapter 4: Perfect Crime. Sherlock is plotting murder.Chapter 5: Note From Home: The Baker Street family has made it a policy to keep no secrets. Little Rosie Watson is a sharp and resilient child, which comes in handy when she has to deal with a less than adequate teacher.





	1. What's in a Name?

**Author's Note:**

> Since I am assaulted on all sides by plot bunnies, I am starting this collection for the shorter texts that will no doubt accumulate over time.

Facebook Profile: Molly Hooper

Staff name tag:  Dr M.Hooper, Pathology

Driving Licence: Margaret Hooper

Passport: Dr Margaret Mary Hooper

Birth Certificate: Margaret Mary Hooper

 

Margaret. It is a name for medieval queens in starched, pompous robes. A name full of gravitas. Too stiff and heavy for Molly, who has many fine qualities but no gravitas whatsoever. The name cries out for a nickname, a pet name, a diminutive.

She could go by Maggie, Marge, Margo, Meg, Peggy, Mags, or even Gretchen.

Gretchen, Dr Faustus’s Margarete. She a sweet, innocent girl, he a genius driven by demons in a reckless pursuit of truth. He is her downfall and ruin; she is his salvation. The whole thing a creation of fellow genius J.W.Goethe.

But no, not Gretchen. (Thank goodness for that; the implications would kill me. Well, not quite.)  Molly, conveniently a pet name for both Margaret and Mary. Mollis (m), mollis (f), molle (n), Lat., adj., _soft._  A name that rolls off the tongue like a sigh of contentment, like a lullaby, like a caress.

Margaret means _pearl_ and the word has travelled far before it ever reached the shores of Britain. It is a variation of the French name _Marguerite_ , which is from the Latin _margarita_ , which is from the Greek _margaron_ , which via Persian goes back to a Sanskrit word, _manjari_.

Pearl, the result of an irritant entering a soft organism (a _moll_ usk, ironically) and being encased in successive layers of a substance called nacre, mother of pearl, that also coats the inner surfaces of the organism’s shell. Is this what happened when I entered her life: a jarring grain, a threat to her peace of mind, an irritant that she patiently turned into a treasure by covering it with layers and layers of her shining essence?

And Mary. Does John know Molly shares a name with his wife? Two Maries. An abundance of Maries in our lives, just like in Jesus’. Mary, mother of Christ. Mary, sister of Lazarus. Mary Magdalene, friend, disciple, maybe lover. Between them, I feel, Molly and Mary have been all of this to me.

Mary, from the Latin Maria, _of the sea,_ stella maris, Ocean Star. But this is a false etymology, because the name really comes from the Hebrew _Miryam_ , origin unclear _._ The root may mean _bitter_ , and it is nothing short of a miracle that she has not turned bitter and cynical, living as she does among corpses and constant rejection.

Margaret Mary Hooper. Hooper, a maker of hoops for barrels. A ring of steel that holds the pieces together. Ring, round, smooth, mathematically perfect, infinite, symbol of eternity. Or just something that braces a casket of beer.

Margaret Mary “Molly” Hooper, the pearl, the sea star, she who is soft where she might be bitter, she who holds the pieces together. Amazing how accident of birth and parental whim can combine to make such a telling name.

!

(No, I won’t mention that.)

!!

(This is my secret.)

!!!

(All right, if you insist.)

The name Mary may go back even further than the Hebrew _Miryam._ Its most ancient source may lie in Egypt, in the root _mry._

It means _My_ _Beloved._

Don’t tell Molly.


	2. What's in a Name II

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock's deductions about John's name

Jesus had 12 disciples. I only have one. How apt that he should be called John, the favourite by default, and my evangelist, I mean so say, my blogger, the man who fictionalises my life to squeeze every last drop of meaning from it.

John, from the Greek _Ioannes_ , based on the Hebrew _Yohanan,_ meaning _Graced by God._ I don’t want to come over all metaphysical, but it’s crystal clear to me that John is indeed blessed with some very special graces. Exactly the kind of graces of which I am entirely devoid. Where I stick out like a sore thumb, he blends in. Where I put my foot into my mouth (usually both feet, let’s face it), he finds the right words to smooth things over. He has an almost magical ability to make himself liked. It is virtually impossible not to like John Watson. I am not jealous as such, but I do at times wonder what it would be like to inspire such universal goodwill in my fellow humans.  John would tell me that I only need to stop being such an arse. But if an arse is what one is, how does one stop being one?

John may be an ancient name of Biblical dimension, but it is also the name of Everyman. Not a freak name like _Sherlock_. Every Tom, Dick and Harry is called John. I am not pointing this out to reduce your significance, John, on the contrary. You, John Everyman, Average Joe, have come to represent all humanity to me.  You have given a face to the amorphous masses of bodies that I used to see where I now, thanks to you, see people. You really, quite literally, mean the world to me.

Hamish, anglicised form of the Gaelic _Seumas_ , the equivalent of _James_ , Latin, from the Hebrew _Ya’acov_ ( _Jacob_ ) meaning _to follow on the heel_. How apt, but don’t tell John; he’ll think I am comparing him to a dog.

James and John. Why is everyone around me so bloody Biblical? John James, my two Maries, even my landlady, who keeps telling me she is not my housekeeper, is called bloody Martha! I don’t know what the universe is trying to tell me here, but for the record, I don’t fancy myself the Messiah.

Watson, short for Walterson. Walter, Germanic _Walthere,_ meaning _leader of armies._ I don’t know anything about John’s father, but this seems a little far-fetched. But I am grateful for some Pagan relief from all this Biblical significance. I suppose not everything can fall so neatly into place.

However, this: Everyman-full-of-Grace who follows where I lead. I’m happy with that. I hope John is, too.

 


	3. Perfect Crime

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Perfect Crime: Sherlock is plotting murder.

Without realising how or even that he’d done it, Sherlock Holmes had planned the perfect murder.

_Your story about the frozen leg of lamb is not half bad, Mr Dahl, so you will excuse me for borrowing from it. Frozen mince moulded into a sharp point is my weapon of choice. I will lock up the victim in his canteen kitchen at night. His body will be found surrounded by a mess of spilled foodstuffs, and nobody will pay attention to some soggy mince._

_Oh, it is perfect, so perfect! The irony! This is more than a crime; this is poetic justice; this is a work of art! Meat Dagger will die by a meat dagger. You will lie dead on the ground, Meat Dagger, and Molly will be mine! Molly will be miiiiiiiine, mwahahahahahaha!_

Sherlock jolted into excruciating wakefulness.

“Good Lord!” he groaned.


	4. What's in a Name III

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rosie's name is giving Sherlock trouble.

Rosie. Rosy. Rosy cheeks, rosy lips. Bands of rosy hue? Rosy mind? Rose-tinted glasses? Not if I have anything to do with your upbringing, Watson!

Rosamund. Rose of the World. Shakespearean?  _A rose by any other name would smell as sweet._ Maybe not; I’ve changed your nappies once or twice. Rosa mundi. Rosa _mundi_. Peccata mundi? No, delete, too much religion already. Fortuna Imperatrix Mundi? Perhaps not either, but at least that’s a decent tune.

Rose. A perennial plant of the family Rosaceae, which also includes apple, plum, cherry, peach, pear apricot, almond and quince.  A whole fruit bowl, Rosie. And a vase of many flowers: rowan, hawthorn and meadowsweet. But the rose is the queen, never forget that.

Rosehip, the fruit of the rose flower, rich in vitamin C and beta carotene, is traditionally made into jam, jelly, herbal tea, wine or even brandy. You _are_ conducive to our health, Rosie, well, mostly. Rosehip can also be processed into itching powder, and I really don’t know where I’m going with this.

_My love is like a red, red rose._ Robert Burns, very fine poet, dreadful womaniser. A bit like your father, I mean, he’s not a poet, but he’s a chaser of skirts, I’m afraid, so let’s move on.

Rose. No other flower is so smothered with symbolism. Rose stands for love, for woman, for perfect beauty.  For vanity. For hidden barbs. Rose stands for England. The Tudor Rose. Red for Lancaster, white for York. Sufi poetry. Rosary prayers. A single flower that represents the Virgin Mary as well as socialism. Rosa Parks? Rosa Luxemburg?  Rose of Sharon? Rose of Jericho? I’m getting nowhere with all this muddle.

 

_A rose is a rose is a rose._

Enough of this. Uncle Sherlock will be ordinary for once. Rosie, you sweet little blossom, my sunflower, my sweet pea, you brighten up my world.


	5. Note From Home

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Baker Street family has made it a policy to keep no secrets. Little Rosie Watson is a sharp and resilient child, which comes in handy when she has to deal with a less than adequate teacher.

“Ooh, that’s lovely,” trilled the teacher, a six foot Canadian with feet like canoes, as she glanced at the note. “So who is getting married?”

“My dad and my Aunt Molly,” replied the child Rosie.

The teacher blinked. “Your dad and you _aunt_?”

“She’s not really my aunt.”

“I see.” But she didn’t see at all. On the first day of school, little Rosie had been accompanied by two men, one of them tall and haughty, the other smiling kindly. Miss Delacroix had assumed that she understood the situation, but then that delightful woman had turned up at parents evening.  “Was she the one who came to parents evening, or was that your mother?”

“My mother died when I was a baby.”

“Oh, sweetie, I am so sorry.” The teacher’s voice sank. “Cancer?”

“Gunshot.”

“How dreadful! Was it a terrorist attack?”

Rosie shook her head. “No, crime. She was trying to save my Uncle Sherlock. Because she loved him.”

“You mother loved your Uncle Sherlock?”

“Yes, but she loved my dad more.”

Miss Delacroix looked again at the note. “So your Aunt Molly…?”

“She’s kind of Uncle Sherlock’s wife, but they’re not married.”

“But now she’s marrying your dad?”

“Yes, so she can adopt me.” The child furrowed her brow. “I’m not quite sure, but I think afterwards she’s going to marry Uncle Sherlock. She’ll have some practice by then.”

“Is Uncle Sherlock your dad’s brother?”

“No, they just live together.”

“You live with your dad and your Uncle Sherlock?”

“And Aunt Molly, and Aunt Martha.”

“Aunt _Martha_?”

“She’s kind of my granny, only not really. Her husband was ex-xe-cutted; that’s why I don’t have a kind-of grandad.”

The teacher took a deep breath, and then another one for good measure. “I see.”

“I don’t think you see,” said Rosie. “You’ve not lived in this country long. You don’t know about my family.”

“What should I know?”

“My dad and Uncle Sherlock are in the crime business. And we want Aunt Molly to adopt me in case something happens to them.”

“So your Aunt Molly isn’t…in the crime business?”

“No, she just sorts out the dead bodies.”

Miss Delacroix swallowed. Then she swallowed again.

“Tell me, Rosie…has the police ever been to your house?”

“Oh yes, all the time.”

“You poor child,” the teacher whispered. Her gaze drifted to the telephone on the desk. Definitely a case for child protection. “Is there anything else I should know about?”

“I’m getting a Guinea pig for my birthday,” Rosie offered.

“Oh, that’s nice.”

“But I’m not allowed to do experiments on it, and neither is Uncle Sherlock.”

Miss Delacroix was at her wit’s end. She closed her eyes and reached out a hand to steady herself against the wall.

The class had followed the whole exchange in breathless silence, but now one little boy piped up from the back:

“You’ve really gotta read that blog, Miss!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Needless to say, the teacher is terribly unprofessional, asking all these leading questions and conducting the conversation in front of the whole class. But anything for a bit of silliness.


End file.
